


under my skin

by sharkie



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-10 04:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14730017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: There is appetite.





	under my skin

**Author's Note:**

> This has nothing to do with Seeking the Name. I just like referencing horrifying eldritch aspects of the setting in mundane scenarios. :p

It begins innocently. Innocently enough. The strategic brush of his arm; the firm squeeze of her hands; inevitable points of contact throughout the election. A glance here or there across crowded rooms at the start of Sinning Jenny’s tenure. All forgotten in the ensuing rush of bureaucratic frustration. 

The Jovial Contrarian's invitation arrives in early November. Against her better judgement, Jenny allocates time to visit. They've recently been content to snipe at each other from a sizable distance. Closing the gap consists of sitting at the same end of a ridiculously long table, drinking and smoking, though neither of them ever really bring their cigar to their lips. The wine is excellent, but the conversation is far too tame for Jenny's taste. Not that she _enjoys_ arguing with him or anything. 

Finally, he pushes his glass aside. Instead of launching into criticism, he places yesterday's newspaper before them: a list of businesses acquired by Mr Fires since the late 70's, released by Jenny's administration, in the public's interest. Chandlers, orphanages, and so on. Most were closed shortly after their purchase. The Contrarian asks if it's true. Of course it's true. When has she  _ever_ lied? He demands sources. She cites Mr Wines' spies and her own spies spying on Mr Wines' spies. She insinuates that the Contrarian's spies could confirm everything. For the first time she can recall, his expression retreats into inscrutability.

He's blunter than a bludgeon, as always: “I'd like to hire you.” 

“I doubt I have the capacity for intimacy right now.” Jenny's eyes drift to his fingers curled around his cigar as he puts it out. “Truth be told, I seem to have paused that part of my career until the end of my term.”

“This isn’t a typical request.” It's cute that he thinks he can shock  _her._ “I just want you to hold me, or let me hold you.” His eyes meet her astonished gaze. He smiles. “However you choose.”

There'd been similar jobs, early in her career, before her pricing spiked to exorbitant. None of the clients in question had the Contrarian's...personality. Her mind zips down the list of potential political dangers and past irritations, and ignores all of that information upon realising that she's never heard him sound so serious. Yet the smile remains. 

“May I ask why?” asks Jenny, cautiously. 

“This city is deprived of touch,” he explains, voice sharp with the biting confidence of a Summerset alumnus and eyes alight with the semi-subdued wildness of a Benthic drop-out. “As am I, these days. Ordinary touch. Not that I’m complaining about the other varieties, like sex and murder. But I could easily find those elsewhere. They're more unreliable in terms of general benefits.”

“I’m not trying to disparage you, petal, but I’m under the impression that you have...friends for this.”

“They’d assume that I’m organising an orgy.”

“Is high society truly _that_ hypocritical?”

“I’m not talking about Society.”

“I could recommend Parlour employees,” Jenny points out. “I’m certain that even an amateur organisation could handle this just as well. Why _me?”_

“I know you.” The Contrarian's answer smarts in its simplicity; she puts out her cigar, keeping her face neutral. “I don't distrust you. And if you aren’t entertaining other clients until the next election, it’s a double coincidence of wants. When were you last touched for over ten seconds?”

Jenny begrudgingly wracks her brains. An overenthusiastic supporter, rejoicing at her victory? A would-be sycophant, their hands summarily pried off by other would-be sycophants? A frightened urchin, soon lost again in a throng of supporters? 

“Awful, isn’t it?” the Contrarian continues, beaming. “Have you been sleeping soundly? Breathing well?”

Now that he mentions it, she wakes sweat-drenched and aching, and not in the pleasant way. Presumably, the overall lack of carnal activities leads to a bone-deep dissatisfaction. Yet seeing to her own needs has had no effect. Maybe he has a point. A broken clock is right twice a day - sometimes even more, depending on the Treachery's strength at that particular moment.

This much is certain: it would be an  _experience_. 

“All right, petal,” says Jenny. “We can give it a go. But it will cost you.”

“Name your price.”

“Silence.”

The Contrarian recoils, horrified.

“You're undercutting yourself,” he blurts. “Severely. It's such a trivial request, you ought to exploit it with the cavalier ruthlessness befitting your position. Wouldn’t you rather have some nice strings of Moon-pearls? I have it on good authority that they're back in fashion, since it's a full moon on the Surface - ”

“This isn’t up for debate,” insists Jenny. “I know you'd find that borderline arousing. Take my terms or I'll go.”

He snaps his mouth shut, gaze darkening with strong yet unreadable emotion. “Very well.” Darkness recedes, swallowed by a spark returning to his eyes. “Will you permit breathing?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“I meant the _sound_ of my breathing.”   

Jenny pretends to consider it and concludes that it’s allowed as long as it isn’t panting. One hour, she declares. One hour of ceaseless physical contact. But one word, and she leaves. They can wear as much or almost as little clothing as he chooses; he can touch her anywhere, within reason, as long as he doesn't grope where she'd usually charge.

He agrees with unsettling solemnity and motions for her to follow him wheeling out of the room. In the hallway, a maid dusts a shelf, and a butler is en route to the kitchen. The Contrarian exchanges nods with them as they pass. They barely acknowledge Jenny. Such lack of attention galls to the point of paranoia. 

Jenny shuts the bedroom door and leans against it as the Contrarian unbuttons his jacket. “Your servants...”

“Won't spread gossip. At least, not to anyone outside work. They're loyal.” He smiles wryly. “Besides, most of them voted for you.”

“You just said they're loyal.”

The smile takes a cryptic turn, achieved through a raised eyebrow and a slight tilt of the head. Shaking her own head, she rushes to divest herself of her skirt. The sooner they're undressed, the sooner he'll be quiet. Evidently he's opted for the 'least clothing' option. He doesn't object as she strips down to her chemise, either, casting the occasional ambiguous glance in her direction.  

Her corset lands on the floor just in time for her to watch him rise from his chair, legs visibly rigid, feet turned inwards towards each other. The fingers of one hand nimbly undo his suspenders; his other hand grips the bedframe for balance. Confusion emulates nakedness more than the actual exposure of her flesh. For seconds, she grapples for the best course of action, if she should  _help_ , if it's insulting to ask, if it's insulting not to ask, where she's supposed to look in any case. Caught off-guard.  _Unsure._ Her fists ball by her sides. 

The Contrarian has settled onto the mattress and is staring at her staring, bemused. 

“Do you like what you see?” he chirps. 

“Perhaps.” Jenny musters a painstakingly effortless smile as she adjusts a strap of her chemise, gratified by how his gaze follows, however brief. “I don't judge by sight. I prefer feeling my way through.” 

He hums receptively. Suspiciously. “What verse does that echo, again?”

 _For we walk by fai-_  She flinches.“Why are you doing this to me?” 

“Why, I believe that I'm teasing you.” His smile widens, forcing her to match it. “You're familiar with the concept.” 

“As frustrating, lengthy denial, of course.  _Speaking_ of which...” Jenny shoots a pointed glance at the nearby clock, then places her index finger over her lips, which are already twitching in triumph while his purse with dread. 

The scarlet stockings stay on. Obviously. 

Curling around her, the cloth of his shirt is cool against her back. She pulls the covers snug around them while he tucks one arm under her side. The other, he drapes over her waist - and moves no more, as if he assumes that his silence has upended all natural order in the universe and rendered her demure. Unacceptable. She urges him to hold her tighter by pushing at his arm and scooting backwards, resulting in nervous chuckles as the back of her knee grazes the front of his drawers.

“Hush, now,” coos Jenny. The Contrarian starts to emit an elaborate sound of displeasure; a swat to his arm puts an immediate stop to it. “And no cheating.”

This position is standard Before and After. Here? She's stuck, between no beginning to justify casual closeness and no looming end. Forget awkward, it's almost anachronistic. It's like stroking the heated barrel of a gun while all the bullets are still chambered. She glances at the clock. Fifty-seven minutes left. Goodness. She hadn't anticipated how his silence might pose a problem for  _her_. But rescinding the rule is out of the question - she refuses to spend the rest of the hour looking like a fool _and_ listening to one. One she's beaten, at that.

Easing into his 'embrace', she speaks of ripples of dissent among supporters. (Really, just the one, but Sister Lydia's grievances could fill a parliament house.) She bemoans the _Gazette'_ s references to her youth, more thinly veiled than the very indecency it decries. (Mr Huffam's criticism may or may not have contributed to her hasty release of Fires' business practices.) When she mentions her rocky relationship with Wines, the tightening grip around her waist indicates either interest or judgement. 

“I'm _so_ glad that you approve,” says Jenny, smiling to herself. “You've been admirably cooperative today. I'll spare you the anguish and take all subsequent silence as agreement.” 

The Contrarian buries his face in her shoulder. She suspects that he'll move his lips to bypass the rule, but he merely sighs. Quietly. His heavy exhalation blows hot over her skin; goosebumps pimple where they're touching and, worse, where they aren't. Her smile drops.

Sex has criteria for success. There's typically a specific goal. Being held like this is - too vague, though physically satisfying on an odd level. An admirer's caress radiates gratitude and longing. Lust lowers inhibitions, indulges impulses. Without desire, there's a nameless itch in an implacable spot that's more frustrating than any conversation they've ever had. Ugh. Maybe she should've asked for the Moon-pearls, as well. 

Jenny grabs the Contrarian's hand, lifts it for closer inspection. It's big, strong and stiff from the day's activities, as expected. She kneads his knuckles several times, flips his hand over, repeats the motion down his palm. His answering moan is cut short by a sharp intake of breath. She does it again. How fortunate for him that she allowed breathing.

New tension buzzes between them as he nuzzles her neck, carefully pressing his body flush against hers. Seeking greater contact. The change is as subtle as the shift from Neathy day to night, and as crucial.

“You can be terribly compliant with the right incentive, can’t you?” His heart is racing against her back. His mind must be moving faster. The man himself stays remarkably still. She skims a fingertip along his arm, humming, just to taunt. “If I gave you permission to say one sentence - anything at all - what would it be?”

“Jenny,” he whispers.

D_mn.

She twists in his arms to face him. His surprised expression soon softens into sweetly winsome; before she can prepare herself, he's brushing a stray lock of hair away from her eyes. An unmistakable shiver escapes her. Mother Superior would be appalled. To top it off, her foot knocks into his, so she has to stroke his sole with her toes to make it seem intentional. Now he stares, unblinking. Amusement? A challenge? Watching his face closely, she draws her leg up to hook around his thigh and peels off the scarlet stocking.  

Something breaks in his gaze. He clings to her like a man drowning - she returns the sudden embrace, gently at first, marvelling at the tightness of his upper body. A brief massage does little to alleviate it. His shudders begin in earnest as she squirms to remove the other stocking and rubs her bare legs against his. When she pulls back, his eyes are shining, all evidence of mirth evaporated. 

“How old were you when you first slept alone?” The Contrarian traces  _10_ on Jenny's raised wrist. “The first time I can remember, I was sixteen. It was part of training.” She pauses. “But you already guessed along those lines, didn't you?” 

He nods, reluctantly lowering his hand. If only all admissions were this simple. His eyes are wet. Because of her. For her.

Those eyes widen as her hand slinks over his hip, to his back, where she traces the curve of his spine. The trembling migrates to his lower lip, which he starts biting with force that’s surely painful. Apparently his comprehension is limited to total silence or incessant blathering. _Either-or._ She’d assumed he was more creative than that. Why else did he offer a _third_ option months ago? Jenny drags her fingertips up his neck, along his jawline, gradually applying pressure until she cups his chin. 

“It’s okay,” she says - counter-intuitively, half in a soothing shush. “It’s okay. Let it out, petal.”

He turns sharply to gasp against the pillow; she coaxes that ragged breath into a series of aborted sobs, one hand stroking upwards right below his throat, the other hovering above his head in uncertainty disguised as poise. A tear slips from his eye - caught by her index finger, and chased by another. Another? Far more than expected. Looking up, he makes no further effort to hide his face. It strikes her, then, that the tears aren’t shed over lost pride, but remembered compliance. Old habits die hard.

She should know. She’s been denying herself, too.

The silken rasp of her drawers reminds her of the fact. A gentle roll of her hips confirms her hunch. Jenny hasn't taken Communion in years - one of the concessions of unrepentance. The Contrarian nudges his head under her prone hand, prompting her fingers to open. Idly, she wonders if he takes it. She wonders if the concept can be consumed by proxy. 

He moans at her nails lightly scraping over his scalp, now unabashed. Yes. Oh, yes. The hand on his chest dances downwards, and his eyes pop open, revealing a muted but distinctive smoulder behind the tears. She almost pulls the trigger, almost straddles him. Then he touches her cheek. And he must not be so hung-up on dichotomization after all, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to combine plea and command without a word.

It would be so easy, she thinks, pulse quickening. So easy to wring out thick tears by telling him about the Abbey. Mental images flash: his accusatory article, jeering anarchists, scarlet-stockinged scarecrows in districts papered with jet posters. A sodden wimple and the lighthouse. Darkness. It would be so, so very easy to squeeze out every last drop by dwelling aloud on unfortunate children growing into wretches who never claw their way out of the muck, until he’s red-faced from shame and exertion and biting his fist to stifle sobbing.

Jenny rests her head on his chest and peers at him. “How old were you the first time someone called you a good boy?” He traces _10_ on her nape. “And the last time?” He hesitates - can’t recall - the realisation springs fresh tears. “Well, let’s fix that, shall we?” The tears spill over with a whimper.   

In a matter of minutes, it's as if the Neath goes topsy-turvy. Maybe it's absurd. Or perhaps her perception has righted itself. For once, it's wonderful to be proven wrong. The Contrarian weeps openly, if not very messily. His sobs are - not quite controlled, _measured,_  like he treats catharsis as a drawn-out indulgence rather than instantaneous release. What stirs within her isn't pity so much as hunger. The craving isn't for misery, but for honesty. Rampant hedonism is such a cliche for Bohemians, but tonight, she gorges herself. And he provides. 

Blinking rapidly, he cups her face with both hands, achingly tender. She has kicked viscounts onto their knees. She has trussed up Surface delegates and tread on their backs. She forgets it all, in these precious seconds, as he sees her - and she is powerful beyond desire. He sees her, in all her splendour and fury and mercy, even as his eyes narrow into slits in a futile attempt to stem another wave of welling tears. 

Jenny firmly cards a hand through his hair. Wonder of wonders: he obeys, sucking in almost laboured breaths, forcing out shaky exhales. His mouth twists around confessions he can't say. A queer sound hitches in his throat, swallowed back down with effort. She dares not disturb his silence with a verbal response. Instead, she burrows deeper into his warmth and loosens a mewl, more for his benefit than hers, well aware of how comforting it is to feel like a safe harbour. 

The Contrarian sniffles. Tears thin from a cascade to slow drops. Settling by his side, she clasps his hand just as he reaches for hers, and she laughs softly. It's a relief to see him smile again. Actually, is he falling asleep? His eyelids flutter, but the frequent squeezes of his hand suggest differently. She squeezes back. Then yawns.

For numerous reasons, staying awake on the job has rarely been an issue. It's necessary! Beneficial, too. But, just this once - 

“Time's up,” he croaks, nodding towards the clock. He squeezes her hand a final time. “Thank you, Jenny.”

A minute later, Jenny finishes pulling up her stockings and rises on unsteady feet. Her fingertips tingle with the memory of touch. She turns, and the Contrarian's pensive look brightens. While adjusting the covers over him, she bends to brush her lips to his forehead, playful, yet lingering. Let him make of that what he will. 

“Next time, you can talk a bit.”  _And pant_. “Consider it a discount.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have a nice box of Jade Fragments?” The Contrarian gulps upon being confronted with Jenny’s souring expression. His smile doesn’t waver. “See you next month?”


End file.
